


The Last Bus

by moth2fic



Category: Spooks
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-13
Updated: 2007-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moth2fic/pseuds/moth2fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ruth catches the last bus home. Is she being followed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Bus

**Author's Note:**

> This double double drabble was written between seasons when we weren't sure whether the Ruth/Harry pairing was just a fannish notion or an actual intent on the part of the BBC to whom these characters belong. Just playing. No beta.

There was no-one else waiting and she shivered and pulled her coat closer round her in the night air. It was late. Late night and a late bus. Of course. British buses had to be late - a built in design fault. It was empty, too, and as he checked her pass the driver muttered something about being glad to be getting back to the depot.

She went upstairs. She always enjoyed looking down on the lights and the river, feeling as if she owned the city. She had the entire upper deck to choose from and she sat right at the front.

Footsteps alerted her to someone else's arrival, a bare second before the bus set off. A frisson of anxiety, then she shook herself. Just another Londoner out late. She didn't turn round. No sense in making eye contact with a stranger at this time of night. The fellow passenger settled into the seat behind her. With the whole deck empty? Well, perhaps they liked the view, too.

Then a featherlight touch on her shoulder and a warm, familiar voice.

"I just wanted . . ." He coughed and started again. "Just wanted to make sure you got home all right. Last bus and so on." His tone was faintly apologetic.

Why hadn't he offered her a lift in his car? Well, she had told him she liked the bus.

She turned now. Looked into deep eyes that drowned her in their intelligence and integrity.

"Why don't you join me?" she said, patting the empty seat beside her. And he did.

They didn't talk much, but then when did they ever? And as the bus headed away from the river, he took her hand in his. So talk wasn't even needed.

They sat in a dream. London lay dark beneath them, pinpoints of light shining, flickering and winking out. Her stop came and went. She couldn't move. It seemed he felt the same.

Then the raucous voice of the driver.

"Terminus!" and, "Haven't you people homes to go to?"

And of course they had, and jobs, too, the next day and the day after and for ever while they saved an uncaring, sleeping population. But the memory of the ride would sustain her.

While she hailed a taxi to get home. While she wished him goodnight. While she slept. And every time she caught the bus. Now and always.


End file.
